The One Where Garth Tries to Find a Lady Friend for Mr Fizzles
by creepstiel
Summary: In which one friend brings the other to Walmart, under false impression.


((This is just a drabbly little thing that I'd like to get off my hands. and by hands, I mean out of my gmail. Yes; sometimes I get drunk, write a fic, and send it to myself. Don't worry, I cleaned it up, so you won't have to read my atrocious drunk grammar and spelling. Naturally, I don't own Supernatural. So there's the disclaimer. Am I missing anything? I haven't posted here in months, and I just finished deleting all but two of my fics, so.))

((Enjoy.))

He's sticking out of Garth's pocket, a loose-fitting leather  
jacket... head poking out, eyes seeing and eyes unfeeling for this

seeing.

He doesn't get out much, by no choice really of his own. But he  
doesn't mind. Garth's pockets are warm, his car smells familiar and  
pleasant. As long as he isn't placed with all those godforsaken socks  
at the bottom of duffle bags and dressers populated by mothballs. He  
cringes, and Garth manages to look down in time to catch it.

"Stop making that face," he admonishes gently.

Mr. Fizzles scrunches his face even more, because Garth is a softy and  
won't do anything about it. His eyes, though daggers right now, can't  
hide the overall fondness.

Mr. Fizzles doesn't ask many questions. Not superfluous ones at any  
rate. Not of Garth. However, right now, if he had eyebrows, they would  
be raised.

Garth has stopped moving, little reedy limbs no longer a-jive. Not  
particularly peculiar, no. Garth is known to pause. What Fizzles  
doesn't understand is the why. Garth is standing in front of a display  
of socks. There are a lot of them. Most in packages-Mr. Fizzles pulls  
another face, this one in sympathy. It must be terribly hard to  
breath, wrapped tight in unforgiving plastic. Garth reaches out a  
hand, finger poking at packages.

Black socks that cut off short at the ankle. White tube socks. A  
package of socks in a variety of neon colors gets a hard jab. Mr.  
Fizzles snickers at the Garth-finger-shaped indent in the suffocating  
plastic.

Garth looks down once more at his companion. "C'mere," he mutters,  
hardly audible. He pulls Fizzles from the soothing warmth of his pocket,  
into the chill of an air-conditioned superstore. He shivers,  
understandably.

He then tilts his head, his view more up close and personal with these  
socks. "These are..." He thinks of the best way to put it, not wanting  
to offend Garth. So the guy ended up in women's apparel while looking  
for new socks. Simple mistake. Could happen to anyone right?

"Nice?" Garth supplies, his grin a toothy one.

Fizzles huffs a sigh. Really, Garth could be a little slow sometimes.

He frowns, hand dropping... giving Mr. Fizzles a boring view of the  
shiny-yet-scuffed floor. Head shaking, he figures maybe Garth has  
realized his mistake, feet now shuffling in a new direction.

"How about this?"

Fizzles was suddenly upright once more, head spinning from it. "Uh,  
uh..." He sputtered before his vision was assaulted with a single pair  
of socks. Bright yellow, like Garth's least used crayon as a child-he  
never drew a sun in the sky. They were otherwise nondescript, a little  
higher cut than ankle socks.

"You don't even like yellow." He grumbles.

"Yeah, well, you're my friend. If you want yellow... I'm cool with that."

Mr. Fizzles wishes he had eyebrows. Or a lone eyebrow, at the very  
least, to raise in disbelief. Garth is smiling at him, it seems  
suspicious. If only because... who on Earth is this enthusiastic about  
socks?

Fizzles groans in exasperation. "Garth, you could wear socks that  
haven't been washed in months, you could wear no socks at all. Mr.  
Fizzles doesn't worry about such things."

Normally, he reserves the third-person speak for children, but Garth  
is being... freaking weird. He needs sense cut into him.

Garth giggles, free hand flying up to clap over his mouth. "You...  
you think I meant to...? Fizzles, these are _lady_ socks."

The blank stare on Mr. Fizzles' part only fuels the giggles. People,  
he notices, are staring. Probably have been staring for a majority of  
the time.

Garth leans in, speaking in hushed tones, "Buddy?"

"Yes, Garth..." It's not a question, because he's honestly a little  
afraid of what the hell might be going on in that noggin of Garth's.

"I was under the impression you might be interested in a Mrs. Fizzles."

There is a heavy silence, all of 17 seconds before a  
high-pitched explosion of expletives erupts from the _lady's_ section,  
and Garth is running those twiggy legs far, far away from store  
security.


End file.
